


Terraform

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftercare, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Come Eating, Come as Lube, Dirty Talk, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Explicit Sexual Content, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Service Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, The Author Regrets Nothing, Top Eskel (The Witcher), Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Lambert (The Witcher), Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28002345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: What was he going to do? Go to a remote keep filled with strong, brooding clones of Geralt and not enjoy himself? Absolutely not.--Jaskier finds himself in a keep with three Witchers and a firm plan in mind.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 24
Kudos: 362





	Terraform

What was he going to do? Go to a remote keep filled with strong, brooding clones of Geralt and _not_ enjoy himself? Absolutely not. 

He let Geralt know, of course, that he had a plan in mind. And Geralt being Geralt, and quite used to Jaskier’s shit, rolled his eyes and shrugged it off. And he kept rolling his eyes and shrugging it off all the way up until Jaskier sat him down and informed him, very sternly, that he would like this plan to take effect. If, of course, Geralt was amenable. If the Witcher, the love of his life, turned around and growled _no_ , or felt uncomfortable at the thought of someone else touching his lark, then he would have dropped it. They would have never mentioned it again. But Jaskier has spent a number of years with the Witcher. He’s gotten good at reading the man. Not all of his glowers and stares look the same, and they don’t all mean the same thing.

Geralt regarded him for a while. In the safety of their own room – _Geralt_ ’s room, now theirs – Jaskier watched a slow blush colour and warm the Witcher’s cheeks. He would have blamed it on sitting so close to the lit hearth. The room was warm – a far cry from the first of the winter storms beginning to lash at the stones outside. But golden eyes glinted.

A smile curled across Jaskier’s lips. _Excellent_.

* * *

It’s a gods-awful night. Another dark, dreadful sky and winds that howl and screech through the looser stones. Rain lashes against the windows, dulled slightly by the thick curtains having been pulled over. The lit hearth blooms warmth into the room. Not that he needs it. Having three Witchers around him is keeping him warm just fine.

The sheets of Geralt’s bed are kicked down to the floor. Because if anything like this was going to happen, it was going to be in _Geralt_ ’s bed, in _Geralt_ ’s room, with _Geralt_ at the head of it. And that’s working out quite well for everyone; including Jaskier.

The Witcher is behind him, keeping him held against a firm chest. His chin is perched on Jaskier’s head, but occasionally his lips will dust the shell of his ear and whisper both absolute filth and sweet nothings to him. How his normally mute and brooding Witcher can suddenly string words together that leave him trembling, he doesn’t know. But gods above, does he appreciate it.

Jaskier tilts his head back, resting back against Geralt’s chest and shoulder. The Witcher turns, setting his lips to Jaskier’s temple. His skin is already drenched in sweat, the scent of it mixing with everything else in the room. Bathing salts and lotions and oils used to soften skin, the scents of all of them, the tang of sweat. It all gathers and mixes and covers the roof of Jaskier’s mouth with every sharp breath he takes.

Bleary blue eyes threaten to shut. “Geralt,” he mumbles through numb lips, reaching back to paw at the Witcher’s arm. They keep him close, pressed and resting against Geralt’s chest – and firmly in place for the two Witchers prowling at the foot of their bed.

He can’t remember when this all started. One moment they were in the baths down in the depths of the keep, and the next, he found himself gathered against Geralt, bare and bared.

A deep rumble tremors out of the Witcher’s chest. “Relax,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against Jaskier’s cheek. “You’re so good for us.”

Golden eyes flicker down to the end of the bed; past the stretch of the bard’s body and parted legs. He’s already mapped out every stretch of skin with his hands and lips, just before their visitors came and it was just them. He has the sounds that slipped out of his lark committed to memory at this stage, playing them over and over in his mind. But it’s nice to hear them again. One of his hands palms Jaskier’s chest. The bard’s heart tremors with every touch, and his breath hitches. A small rumble tremors out of him. “Good,” he murmurs. It’s almost lost as another gasp slips out of Jaskier’s throat.

Geralt’s gaze flickers back up, regarding the Witcher bowed over his lark. Strong hips snap and each thrust into Jaskier’s body has more fucked out sounds lured out of his throat. Jaskier’s eyes roll as Lambert slows for a moment, grinding their hips together.

Geralt watches. Golden eyes locked on to the youngest Witcher and where his hands stay. They’re curled, white-knuckled, into the bedsheets on either side of Jaskier’s hips. They want to grab and hold while he fucks, because with every sure thrust of his cock into the bard, Jaskier moves up. He would do, if Geralt wasn’t a solid force behind him keeping him firmly where he should be – lain and spread out for them to do what they like. Jaskier’s legs perch around Lambert’s hips, open and spread. Geralt’s throat bobs at the sight.

Eskel waits in the shadows, stalking beyond the candlelight and keeping to the edges of the room. He’s the better behaved of the two. He won’t interfere unless Geralt invites him in. Or Jaskier reaches out. Until then, Geralt looks for the familiar golden eyes in the shadows.

Jaskier moans thickly at a particularly harsh thrust. Lambert pulls back until only the head of his cock is inside Jaskier, lingering there for a moment while whines slip out of the lark’s throat. When he pushes back in again, slapping their hips together, Jaskier moans towards the rafters above them, his eyes rolling and breath hitching.

Geralt had him first, earlier on in the baths when Jaskier was languid and lounging, and Geralt will have him last. When the others are gone, shuffled back into their own rooms to weather out the storm, Geralt will gather his lark into his arms and bathe him and make sure he’s alright.

Jaskier’s hand settles on to his arm. His fingers loosely curl into the flesh and muscle there. “My love,” he breathes, stretching his neck so he can murmur into Geralt’s ear, “my love, _please_ , can I cum?”

His cock hasn’t been touched. Not while the others have been in here. Jaskier rutted it against the bedsheets while Geralt took his mouth to him, delving his tongue inside of Jaskier to stretch him out and wet him. But since then, turned around and pinned and at the mercy of Witchers, it’s been turning red and leaking and pooling precum on to the bard’s abdomen.

Lambert’s head hangs. His thrusts stutter slightly, and his grip on the bedsheets tightens. He’s close. Chasing down a release that is slowly building in him. Each thrust into the bard is wet and noisy and brutal. Thick curls of red hair hang down and curtain around his face, blocking it from Geralt’s view, but he can imagine what Lambert looks like. They’ve spent too much of their youth together. None of them are particularly shy about bedmates or manners.

Lambert’s brows are pulled together, his lips thinning as he holds in noises. Some grunts manage to slip through, but Geralt watches the younger Witcher tighten his jaw.

Jaskier pats his arm. “ _Geralt_ ,” he whines, “Geralt, please, let me cum. I’m so close.”

There’s a rumbling groan out of the younger Witcher. “Your bard is tight, Geralt,” he grunts. When he looks up, through the fallen curls of fire-coloured hair sticking to his face with sweat, he struggles whether to look at the older Witcher or his bard. Either one would do; both look as equally lost. Jaskier manages to catch his eye. The bard lifts his chin. A silent challenge if ever he saw one. He tightens around Lambert’s cock, luring another moan out of him. “Gods alive. Better than any city whore, your bard. I can see why you kept him around.”

A low, warning growl rumbles out of Geralt’s throat.

Jaskier’s answer is a high-pitched whine. His legs stretch out to the sides, letting Lambert in deeper – if that’s possible.

Geralt bows his head, setting his lips to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw. “If you want to come,” he rumbles, feeling the words shudder through his lark, “then get Lambert there first. Be a good boy for him and let him finish inside of you.”

And that’s...Jaskier’s eyes roll. Geralt might have mentioned something about not letting either of the other Witchers come inside of him. _On_ him, sure. If anything, he was all for that. But this is new. And Jaskier’s hand curls around the Witcher’s wrist and squeezes. A silent _thank you_ , because he certainly can’t pull together words to form sentences now.

Lambert’s throat bobs. He’s imagining it. The thought of filling Geralt’s bard plays out in front of him, and it drags him closer and closer to the edge.

“Let him fill you, lark,” Geralt growls, setting his teeth to Jaskier’s jaw. “Get nice and wet with him. You still have to take Eskel. Wouldn’t you like to be nice and stretched out and wet for Eskel? Hmm?”

Jaskier’s ability to speak is long gone. He clutches on to Geralt with what he has left, trying to lift his hips to meet every one of Lambert’s thrusts. They quicken and snap and lose all sort of rhythm before a tight groan punches out of Lambert and the Witcher’s hips finally still. He pushes flush against Jaskier’s, his chest heaving and abdomen sinking in as he comes. Jaskier’s legs fall to the side.

He wishes he were further down. He wants to watch. Lambert still inside of him and waiting to pull out, making sure that the tightening and fluttering walls around him have milked him dry. But Geralt’s here, beside the bard’s head, listening to all of the choked sounds slipping out of him. Geralt nips at his jaw. “Good boy, Jaskier,” he murmurs, palming a hand over the bard’s chest. When his fingers slip over the man’s nipple, a shudder rattles through him. His cock still stays red and leaking, and Geralt curls his fingers around it. He pumps only a few times before Jaskier’s breath stills and release coats Geralt’s hand and Jaskier’s abdomen. Lambert, still inside of the bard, groans.

“ _Gods_ ,” he heaves, slipping out of the body beneath him. His fingers unfurl from the bedsheets and his knuckles turn back to a healthy pink. Golden eyes watch, peering down at the mess left behind.

Jaskier’s throat bobs. He can feel it inside of him, slipping out and dripping on to the bed. He lifts a leg, bending his knee and setting his foot against the mattress. Lambert’s eyes don’t leave him. Jaskier won’t be able to tell, but Geralt can. He can hear how the younger Witcher’s heart hammers in his chest. His breath skips and hitches as he, presumably, watches a trail of cum ooze out of Jaskier’s hole.

Geralt’s teeth sharpen. He wants to be down there.

In the shadows, golden eyes meet his. One more, and then he can have his bard back. It’s the start of winter, and a long one ahead if anything the local villagers are saying is anything to go by. A long summer means a long winter, and this summer was eerily long and good.

He doesn’t sigh at the thought of having to stay in the keep for longer this time. He has his bard, and now two other bedmates to share him with.

Jaskier’s breathing eventually starts to level out again. Geralt gentles his teeth, trailing soft kisses along his jaw and any skin he might have caught. Marks will be littered all over his skin tomorrow, and Geralt delights in it. He won’t have to hide what he does with Jaskier anymore, not from the other two Witchers at least. They were _there_.

Lambert slips away. For the first time in a long time, possibly ever, Geralt watches the youngest Witcher struggle to hold his legs underneath him. he acts like a newborn colt, staggering away from the bed. He slinks into the shadows surrounding the edges of the room. Geralt’s ears twitch at the sound of glass clinking, along with the familiar pungent scent of wine.

Not long after Lambert disappears, Eskel joins them. Geralt gentles his lark, keeping his touch constant and soft while in moments alone. But as soon as the other Witcher steps into view, Jaskier’s breath thins again. “Hello, darling,” he lulls, letting his legs fall to either side.

Golden eyes drop and Geralt’s lip twitches in a smile. Jaskier isn’t entirely human. There’s something off about him. Something that doesn’t smell quite right. Geralt delights in it. It’s a scent unique to Jaskier and Jaskier alone. But he’s always wondered if his lark sings as well as he does because he’s a siren. He certainly knows how to lure people near, with the right words and soft looks.

Eskel crawls on to the bed. Geralt has the biggest room among them, stretching out in all directions. It used to belong to one of the teachers from centuries ago, since vacant after the siege. Geralt took it for himself, mainly because of the space. But the bed is also huge. Eskel prowls up towards the bard, his eyes wandering over every stretch of skin he can find.

Eskel isn’t Lambert; in every sense. Lambert is brash and as fiery and wild as his hair tends to be. He’s brutally honest and blunt and has a tongue that can cut cleaner than any sword. And Eskel can rise to be like that too, if pushed. But Eskel is _good_. He’s kind and gentle, and his touch, when Geralt nods, permitting it, is worshipping. When he touches Jaskier, the bard shudders with every tremor of pleasure that shakes through him. His cock twitches, starting to fill again. A whine slips out of his throat. He’s heavy in Geralt’s arms, holding his whole weight against him. His head rolls, just enough to look down at Eskel dusting kisses along the arches of his hips.

“Get on with it, Eskel,” a familiar leering voice comes from the shadows. “Any time tonight would be lovely.”

Geralt glowers at the youngest Witcher. The glow of the fire highlights just enough of him to make out. He sits himself by the lit hearth, lounging in a chair with his legs stretched out in front of him, his skin still glistening in sweat. Lambert combs his fingers through his hair, pulling most of his mane back from his face. He offers Geralt a quirked smile. “Just making sure everyone gets a fair go at our little songbird.”

Wonderful noises tumble out of Jaskier’s throat. Eskel travels along his skin, around the arches of his hips and into the dip of his groin. At the first brush along the base of his cock, Jaskier keens. It tries to fill out, gods bless it. Geralt watches Eskel hum and drag his lips over it, kissing and worshipping. His hand soon joins.

Jaskier reaches down, carding his fingers through wavy blonde hair. Eskel hums again, glancing up at the bard. The corners of his lips twitch. Jaskier’s fingers knot through the Witcher’s hair, clutching and holding, just as Eskel guides the bard’s cock to his mouth and delves down on to it.

Geralt sets his lips to the shell of Jaskier’s ear. “Good,” he rumbles, listening to the hitches of Jaskier’s breath and the moans lilting through his voice. Eskel’s lips stretch around him and he swallows him down. Eskel is slow and tactile with how he touches Jaskier, luring pleasure back into the man. Geralt watches. “Are you watching him, lark? See how well he’s treating you? Only good boys get their cocks sucked.”

Jaskier trembles. The fingers curled through Eskel’s hair tighten, not quite guiding, but holding on. With every bob of the Witcher’s head, the hold firms.

“Are you a good boy?” Geralt rumbles against his ear, feeling another tremor shake through him. He knows how to speak to Jaskier when he’s like this. When he needs specific touches and words to lure him towards the edge. And he might not have as skilled of a tongue as his bard – a true wordsmith, through and through – but he knows exactly what to say and how to dust it over the bard’s ear. “Will he let you come in his mouth, or will you come around his cock?”

Jaskier’s whine is tight. His hand falls away, reaching up instead to paw at Geralt’s upper arm – any stretch of skin and muscle he can grab on to.

“Maybe both,” Geralt muses. “Would you like that? Would you treat Eskel to two finishes?”

Lambert makes a sound just loud enough for Geralt to hear. He glances up at the youngest Witcher, watching from his seat by the hearth. His brows are pulled together.

“Then again,” Geralt murmurs, “it wouldn’t be fair to Lambert, would it? He would have to have you again to make it even.” And Lambert could very easily go again. Geralt’s gaze flickers down. Jaskier won’t be able to see. Most of the room is shrouded in shadows and what glow the hearth offers isn’t enough to highlight Lambert’s swelling cock, or how his hand drifts to curl his fingers around it.

Eskel pulls off of Jaskier, but his hand pumps steadily, spreading spit and slick all over. A smile quirks the corners of his lips. “You’re torturing the poor lad,” he murmurs, pressing one last kiss to the valley of Jaskier’s hip. Geralt glances down at the Witcher’s cock. It’s hard and leaking on to the bed, bobbing with every shuffle Eskel makes on the bed, getting himself into the hollow of Jaskier’s thighs. The bard’s legs fall away to the sides, letting Eskel draw as close as he can. Golden eyes look down at him; at the stretch of skin and lithe muscle lain out between him and pressed back against Geralt; at the way the bard trembles and rolls his head to look up at him with bleary eyes. Eskel smirks. His thumb runs around the wet hole left behind after Lambert. He hums. “Open for me, are you little lark?” he rumbles. “Ready to take another?”

Geralt focuses on Jaskier. He’s tuned to the bard’s noises and feeling against him. If he didn’t want to be here, if he wanted it to stop, he would call it all off and no one would say a word about it. But Jaskier’s plan was...detailed...to say the least. And glancing down at his songbird, he hardly looks ready to throw in the towel. Not this early into the night, at least.

Jaskier lifts his chin. “Please."

Eskel reaches down, pressing the head of his cock against Jaskier and stilling there for a moment. Jaskier’s eyes roll and his eyelids flicker closed. He’s bigger than Lambert, thicker and more of a stretch. He’s glad to have started with the other Witcher. But the moment Eskel pushes in, setting a hand on to the arch of his hip and holding him still, Jaskier squirms back against Geralt’s chest. His breath hitches in his throat. Distantly, he’s aware of Geralt’s voice drifting through the haze. “Good boy, Jaskier,” he murmurs, “you’re doing so well. Look at you, lark. You’re opening up so well for Eskel.”

The blonde-haired Witcher grunts. When his hips still flushed against Jaskier, when the bard can feel the thick hot length pressed inside of him, not leaving any room for anything else, Eskel draws in a steady breath. “He feels good,” he rasps, letting the hand of Jaskier’s hip drift and skirt over his skin. Jaskier trembles. Every sense is being set alight. “Tight and wet, like he’s going to break.”

Lambert grunts from the other side of the room. “Stretched him out good and proper for you,” he lilts. “Shouldn’t have a problem getting in there.”

Geralt rumbles a short growl. There’s a time and a place for them nipping at each other. They have the rest of the winter; preferably in the daylight hours. Not when they’re here, when his bard is lain out for them as a gift.

The first roll of Eskel’s hips is gentle and sweet. Slow, just getting Jaskier used to him. The songbird sings lovely tunes; breathless moans and wisping attempts at Eskel’s name. He curls a hand on to Geralt’s arm, his fingernails digging into the swell of muscle.

“How does he feel, lark?” he rumbles against Jaskier’s ear, dusting kisses along his hairline. Spots he knows will have tremors shaking through him. His lips quirk at the first of them, when his breath thins and his head rolls back further on to Geralt’s shoulder. Jaskier looks to the rafters above them, to the beams and rocks of the ceiling, parting with the sight of Eskel for just a moment. It might end it all too soon – feeling what he’s feeling and seeing the sight before him.

“Good,” Jaskier breathes. His throat bobs. “ _Big_. I can, _fuck_ , I can feel him everywhere.”

“You’re gripping on to me tight, little lark,” Eskel rasps, “there’s hardly anywhere for me to go.” His hips roll into a steady rhythm, rocking against Jaskier’s and watching how the bard trembles underneath him.

Fingernails dig into Geralt’s arm, leaving welts behind. Any marks his lark leaves on him are gone as soon as they turn to bed. They’re forgotten about by morning. But he can leave his own marks on the bard. His teeth scrape behind Jaskier’s ear.

Eskel sets his hands where Lambert’s were; either side of Jaskier’s waist and curling his fingers into the bedsheets. He grips them tighter and tighter with each roll of his hips. And then he starts to drag his hips back, just enough to drag his cock in and out of Jaskier’s quivering hole, before delving back in. Every thrust has the songbird singing, moaning towards the rafters and squirming back against Geralt. Jaskier pushes at his arm. “Touch me,” he breathes, rolling his head just enough to brush his nose against Geralt’s. “ _Please_ , Geralt. I need to come.”

A low rumbling laugh tremors out of his throat. “Eskel only just started, my love,” he murmurs. He keeps it to them, but he’s sure that Eskel, and Lambert from across the room, can both hear him. Eskel must, surely – if the quickening of his hips is anything to go by. “You must be so sensitive now, I know. You’re so good for all of us. Hang on just a bit more, can you do that for me? Can you be a good boy for me and Eskel?”

Jaskier’s legs splay. It gets Eskel somehow deeper, delving into the hollow of his hips. Wet slapping sounds clap through the air and Geralt’s cock stirs. It pushes into Jaskier’s back. He wants to roll his hips, get some kind of release. He smears precum all along the bard’s skin. Jaskier whines. Surely he remembers their promise. This could all happen if Geralt had him first and Geralt has him last. The baths seem like days ago, a fond distant memory. He wrung as much as he could out of the bard before he brought him up here, lain out and bared for the others. And once Eskel is finished, and he and Lambert take their leave, Geralt will have him again. The thought of any piece of his brothers-in-arms staying inside of his songbird, staining him, it makes something primal rumble out of the core of his chest.

Eskel’s breath hitches. “That’s it, lad,” he grunts, “tighten up around me, that’s it. You feel so good, Jaskier. You look so pretty lain out for us. Look at yourself, darling.”

Jaskier’s head is heavy against him, but he just about manages to glance down at himself, at the stretch of blushing skin marred by kisses and bite marks and splatters of cum, still staining his abdomen and cooling. Jaskier’s cock leaks, red and ruddy, with no one even thinking of touching it just yet. Geralt’s teeth nip against the back of his ear. Jaskier is close. He treads along the line of release, just about there but not quite. And Eskel has a mouth on him that could rival even the bard’s. With a smile quirking the corner of his lips, Eskel sets his hands firmly into the bedding and quickens his hips. “Is this what our winter will be like, hmm? Our own personal whore kept in this bed, ready for us whenever we like?”

Lambert’s breath hitches. Geralt glances over just in time to see his hand quicken on himself, urging him nearer to the edge.

Eskel sets a hand on to Jaskier’s hip, keeping him pinned and still enough to fuck into the bard as firmly as he can. “We’ll treat you well, lark, don’t worry. You won’t ever be without one of us,” he grunts. His thrusts start to stagger and skip, and beads of sweat start to gather on his chest. Geralt watches, thinning his lips. He remembers their youth. A keep full of young men wired full of hormones and potions, what did the teachers expect? He’s alluded to it with Jaskier. Stories had been pulled out of him in tavern rooms, on nights where the bard had perched on his cock and ridden him dry. Sated and soft and _pliable_ , Jaskier could work just about anything out of him – including the more sordid stories of the Kaer Morhen wolves.

Geralt’s hand drifts down Jaskier’s chest. He thumbs over the bard’s nipples, lifting them to peaks. When Jaskier’s moans lift in pitch, his breathing thins and whines slip out of him, he moves on. His palm ghosts over Jaskier’s quivering abdomen, where he can feel the soft swell of Eskel fucking into him, and he curls his fingers around the bard’s cock. “He’s going to come, lark,” he rumbles against Jaskier’s ear. “Would you like to come with him? Make him feel good?”

Eskel’s golden eyes bare into the bard’s, watching with bated breath. His hips don’t stop. He chases down his release with abandon, tightening his grip on Jaskier. The bard’s mouth hangs open, fucked-out noises punched out of him. Eventually, blearily, he nods. He wets his lips. “Come in me, Eskel,” he whines, parting his legs even more. “ _Please_. Please, I want to be full of you.”

Geralt’s lips twitch. Eskel’s brow knits in concentration. He looks at the expanse of skin and muscle lain out in front of him, watching it tremble and shake underneath him. Geralt quickens his hand on Jaskier’s cock. He can feel how tightly he tightens around Eskel, a punched-out sound grunting out of the Witcher as he continues to fuck him.

Lambert leans forward, bowed and breathing heavily as he watches. He’s close too, Geralt can smell it. “That’s it, Eskel,” he growls, “make our songbird sing. Give it to him.”

He must be too far gone if he isn’t going to glower over his shoulder and snap at the younger to _shut up_. But the words worm their way into his mind and his mouth hangs as he grunts and groans and then, Geralt’s eyes flicker down, he comes.

Geralt’s hand quickens on Jaskier’s cock, just enough for the bard to try and fuck up into his fist. Within seconds, just as Eskel bows over him, Jaskier comes. It’s whole-bodied and Jaskier’s breath stills as he arches away from Geralt’s chest. Release coats his hand. It’s not a lot. Jaskier, today alone, has already come three times. Two in the past hour. He’s an avid lover, and youth is still kind to him with the elven blood lilting through his veins, but even he knows when he’s beat.

He squirms as Geralt pumps him one last time, gathering what release he can on to his hand and bringing it to his own lips. Jaskier whines at the sight – his Witcher tasting him, humming around his fingers as they press against his lips and delve into his mouth. Bleary blue eyes watch him, almost closing as exhaustion starts to wash over him.

Eskel slips away. The moment he pulls out of Jaskier, the bard winces and draws his legs up, but Eskel is too quick for any of his tricks. He’s already down by the foot of the bed before the bard tries to gather him back. A small laugh huffs out of him. “We have all winter, bard,” he rumbles, slipping away from the bed and fading into the shadows. Lambert’s breathing has thinned out. The stench of sex sours the air, settling over the roof of Geralt’s mouth and almost suffocating. His eyes glint at the sight of Lambert’s stained hand.

Jaskier whines, leaning back against Geralt. It’s more of a slump. All effort to keep himself still and right has long been fucked out of him. If Geralt weren’t perched behind him, taking all of his weight, Jaskier would just fall back among the collections of pillows piled up against the headboard.

With cleaned fingers, he dusts them along the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw. “You did so well, little lark,” he soothes, listening to the swell of noises slip out of him at the praise. “You’re tired now, aren’t you? Would you like to rest?”

All of his words have left him too. He paws at Geralt’s arm, tugging as firmly as he can, but Geralt is immovable. He knows what he said. He knows what he promised. He would have Jaskier last. And some feral part of him wants to go through with it; claim his songbird back as his, in front of the others, so they understand who Jaskier belongs to.

But the more rational side of him looks at his bard beginning to slip away, dozing in his arms, and hums. He glances over to the hearth. Two pairs of golden eyes watch him. “Get out,” he grunts, moving to set Jaskier down on to the bed. The sheets are a mess and he does he best to keep Jaskier away from the wet parts, but he’s sure by morning, they’ll be soiled even more – if the bard recovers his energy quick enough, before the sun can rise.

Lambert grumbles something or other under his breath, but both of them dutifully gather and put on what clothes they can find, or at least keep them decent until they’re back in their own rooms, and leave. The moment the door clicks shut, and all that’s left is the crackling of the hearth and the soft breaths of his songbird, Geralt gets up out of bed. He winces at his protesting joints and muscles, kept in one position for gods only know how long. But he pads over to the chairs and table, pouring what wine Lambert left him into a goblet and knocking it back. It settles the more feral parts of him. And the urge to loop his fingers around his cock slowly leaves him. He’ll have his bard, but when he’s awake and lucid and able to curl around him and enjoy it.

With the last of the wine drained, Geralt shuffles back to bed. His eyes grow fond seeing Jaskier as splayed out as he is, head rolled to the side and limbs stretched out in all directions. He sets about gathering some clean stripes of cloth, wetting them, and cleaning what he can of Jaskier before settling the man down into the bed. Jaskier barely mumbles or twitches at being moved around, but he’s eventually lain down in a dry and clean part of the bed. Geralt joins him, pulling sheets and furs over both of them. He curls around Jaskier and gathering him close as he finally settles down for the night.

Jaskier hums, burrowing his face into the pillow and breathing in the scent of Geralt in it. His hips roll back, settling against Geralt’s cock. He doesn’t move. Once he’s flushed against his Witcher, he stills and stays and falls back to sleep. Geralt rasps his teeth against the man’s nape. The moment he’s awake, when he’s gathered back enough energy, he’ll have him. He just has to wait for the sun. Geralt curls his arms around Jaskier, holding him close.

The last thing he hears, before sleep can stalk in from the shadows and lure him under, is Jaskier mumbling something heavy with sleep.

“I have the best ideas.”

Geralt snorts against his nape. “That you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I realised towards the end of this fic that I had actually swapped my POVs - started with Jaskier and ended with Geralt. And you know what, I'm not even going to try and fix it. This fic took me two days to write, and I just want it out of my head 😂
> 
> tumblrs;  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter;  
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly welcomed 🥰


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